


Close Enough To See

by Ellex



Series: Close Enough [1]
Category: Blood Ties
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e08 Heart of Fire, F/M, M/M, Major UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-20
Updated: 2007-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:56:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellex/pseuds/Ellex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a glimpse into what might have happened immediately after that last scene, when Henry took over supporting Mike and headed down that hallway…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally published to my Livejournal back in 2007.

Vicki hurried to catch up with Mike and Henry on their way out of the church. She turned the corner and peered, confused, down the empty hallway, hesitating.

Then Henry's quiet voice called to her from an open doorway that was, to her, a nearly solid block of darkness.

She moved cautiously into the dim room, full of impenetrable shadows, robbed of vision by her damaged eyes. Fishing the heavy duty flashlight from the pocket of her jacket, she turned it on and caught Henry in the full flood of it. He flung up an arm to protect his eyes, a startled snarl echoing through the room.

"Sorry," she said unrepentantly, lowering the flashlight – then raised it again as a gleam of dull gold and white caught her eyes.

Mike Celluci lay on a scarred church pew, his head in Henry's lap and his feet propped up on the armrest at the end of the bench. The thin skin around his closed eyes had the bruised look of a trauma victim.

"Mike?" The whispered name burst from Vicki's lips.

There was no response. Vicki moved closer, her heart in her throat, playing the stark beam of the flashlight over his face. It was hard to say who was paler: the vampire or the detective.

"He fainted," Henry told her calmly. "To be honest, I'm surprised he lasted as long as he did. I took rather more from him than is entirely safe."

Vicki swallowed hard, and Henry's preternaturally sharp hearing must have picked it up, because he glanced up and said quickly, "He's strong and healthy, Vicki, he'll be fine. A few days rest, plenty of fluids and he'll be his usual…irritating…self."

She let out a long, slow breath of relief, feeling the last of the adrenaline and fear drain away, leaving her weary and horribly close to tears.

Henry carefully avoided looking at her, brushing the tousled blonde locks from Mike's forehead, studying the other man's face as if seeing him for the first time.

"He's actually very pretty…when he isn't awake, that is," the vampire told her.

"Yeah," Vicki replied, "I'd noticed that myself. You'd better not tell him that, though."

"No," Henry agreed. "Vicki –" he paused, then continued, "thank you. If you hadn't come…"

She smiled tiredly at him, and it seemed like the darkness around them lightened a little.

And then she ruined it by opening her mouth.

"Yeah, well, I figure I owe you. A little. And I'd kinda like to keep you around to watch my back as long as I keep getting involved in all this…supernatural stuff." She waved her hand in the air as if the gesture could encompass the entirety of the 'supernatural stuff'.

He had to smile – she was so determined to be independent, to treat every exchange between them as an equal trade-off of favor for favor. He couldn't blame Celluci for being simultaneously protective of her and exasperated with her…or for being drawn back to her again and again.

"Why don't you go see if Detective Celluci left his car nearby? I'm not quite recovered enough to carry him more than a block or two. And perhaps," he paused, "perhaps he will be awake by the time you return."

Her eyes darted down again to where Mike's head rested in Henry's lap.

"You're sure he'll –"

"He will be fine, Vicki. I promise."

She nodded, more to herself than to him. When she reached the door she glanced back, but he could tell that her weakened vision couldn't separate the two men from the shadows at that distance.

He listened to her footsteps pacing down the hallway. The sound had nearly faded when the broad chest under his hand twitched and rose with a deep breath.

"Fitzroy…" Celluci's voice was breathy and faint.

"Detective?"

"You bit me, you asshole." It took him a full breath to get the entire sentence out, and the last word still trailed off into nothing. There was no strength in his voice, and it drained the venom from his tone.

"Yes. And you handed me over to a psychotic vampire hunter." Henry kept the darkness out of his eyes deliberately, allowing Celluci to meet his gaze, but the detective couldn't keep his own eyes open for more than a few lethargic blinks.

"Heard you talkin' t' Vicki," Mike murmured drowsily. "'s it true? 'm gonna be okay? Cuz I don' feel…feel too good."

"I have a great deal of experience with blood loss, detective. You'll recover, with no lasting ill effects."

The blue eyes managed to open again with a distinct look of doubt.

"You have my word, Michael Celluci. And please accept my apologies for my…loss of control. I was truly desperate, in a way I have not been for many years."

"mm-hmm…sorry I almos'…got you killed…"

The brief spate of energy was leaving Celluci swiftly, and his head settled slightly in Henry's lap, placing pressure on a sensitive area. An unexpected surge of arousal rose in the vampire. But he was still weakened from his ordeal, and it only lasted for a moment.

He brushed the soft hair that feathered across Celluci's forehead again, gazing intently at the 'younger' man.

"I think I'm beginning to understand what Vicki sees in you," he murmured. "In your own way, you're nearly as fascinating as she is."

Celluci muttered something unintelligible and sighed heavily. Laying his hand on Mike's chest to feel the slow, steady heartbeat, Henry smiled thoughtfully and waited for Vicki to return.


	2. Henry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A truce is reached.

Henry Fitzroy, bastard son of King Henry the Eighth, opened his eyes as the sun sank below the horizon and tried to remember why he felt as though he could happily lay right where he was until the sun came back up and sent him back into dreamless sleep.

 _Oh, right._ Mendoza. The church. That horrible metal brooch that had pierced his heart and allowed the insane former Inquisitor to drain his life's blood from him.

And then _she_ had come. Vicki Nelson, his unexpected and incongruous knight in shining armor, his rescuing angel in rubber boots. He smiled, licking his lips to moisten them, catching a faint hint of dried blood at the corner of his mouth. The smile turned into a frown as he tried to recall more of the previous night. He'd been delirious with hunger and rage, weakened with blood loss, and most of his memories were confused and vague. Vicki had come, he knew that – Mendoza was dead, of that he was also certain. Celluci had been there, too.

Celluci – who had betrayed him to Mendoza. A surge of anger brought Henry off the bed and onto his feet…where he swayed, still weakened, and quickly sat down. Forcing himself to rein in his anger, he reached for the lamp beside the bed, shielding his eyes from the sudden glare.

He was still wearing pants, but no shirt, shoes, or socks. A gauze pad had been taped to his chest, right over his heart. Pulling it off revealed the puncture wound, about the size of a dime and almost fully healed. The abrasions around his wrists from the manacles were already completely gone. The Hunger…well, it was present, but not desperate. It could wait until later, until he had a better idea of exactly what had happened.

If Vicki was still here…maybe she could be persuaded to let him feed. He didn't need much, but it would certainly be easier than trying to find someone else. He was in no shape to go to a club or a bar, and his usual…friends…would expect rather more in reciprocation than he felt up to giving them. Listening closely as he rose and walked carefully towards the door of his bedroom, he could hear a heartbeat within the apartment – the slow, steady beat of someone sleeping. But not the familiar sound of Vicki's heart, something he had been getting more and more accustomed to. This was a louder, heavier sound – a man's heart. His fists clenched.

Moments later, Henry sat on the edge of the coffee table, gazing down at Mike Celluci, who was sleeping like the dead on the long sofa.

The note he'd found on the coffee table – written in Vicki's nearly indecipherable scrawl – informed him that she'd gone out to pick up some food, since Henry's kitchen was pretty much empty of anything but a few bottles of wine and a can of Hershey's chocolate syrup ("I don't want to know," the note said). Celluci had slept all day, and Henry was not to disturb him – "please".

The "please" had been written in large capital letters, and felt like more of a demand than a request.

Henry sighed and rubbed at his eyes, suddenly acutely aware of the accumulated grime from the previous night's events. As much as he'd like to drag Mike Celluci up off of his couch and put the fear of God – or rather, the fear of Henry Fitzroy – into him, the thought of Vicki's disappointment and anger was more than he could face. And the detective _had_ come with Vicki to rescue Henry from Mendoza, and it was Celluci's blood that now ran in his veins. That, he supposed, counted for something.

A conversation from last night came hazily back to him: Vicki telling him that they were going straight to Henry's apartment, because it was dangerously close to dawn and it was the only place she could be sure of his safety from the daylight. He remembered objecting when she wanted him to help her take Celluci – who was either sound asleep or unconscious in the back seat of the car – up to Henry's apartment as well. She'd been really irritated at that point – with the both of them, and Mendoza, and herself, he thought – and had snapped that she wasn't strong enough to manhandle Celluci to his own bed, and that as much as she'd like to, she couldn't take him to a hospital because for god's sake, how the hell would she explain the huge _bite_ mark on his neck or how he'd lost so much blood?

That thought made him take another look at the policeman lying on his couch. Usually, Mike Celluci looked like he could have stepped off the cover of _GQ_ if he'd been five years younger and got more sleep. But tonight, the detective was nearly as pale as Henry himself, eyes sunken and smudged with dark circles.

Celluci seemed to sense, even in sleep, that he was being watched. He twitched, sighed, and shifted. His head fell slightly to the side, giving Henry an excellent view of the ragged gash that marred the man's neck. The flesh wasn't just broken, it was _torn_. The wound was fairly shallow, but it looked like he'd been savaged by an animal. Another gauze pad – Vicki had probably taken it out of her rat's nest of a purse, because all Henry had was a box of Band-Aids – was hanging on by a corner of surgical tape, apparently rubbed off by Celluci while he slept.

Even the coagulant in Henry's saliva hadn't been enough to keep the wound from bleeding. The gauze was brown with dried blood, and even now, the gash was still wet-looking. The copper penny scent of fresh blood mingled with the sour smell of old blood in his nostrils, and he found his mouth flooded with saliva, the vivid memory of Celluci's blood pouring down his throat coming back to him in a rush. He found himself leaning down, wanting to taste it again, lost in the smell of male sweat and sleep and pain.

It wasn't until the taste of blood burst across his tongue that Henry came back to himself, pulling his mouth away from Celluci's neck with a jerk of his head, cursing his own lack of control. He closed his eyes, fighting the Hunger down when all he wanted to do was lean back down and…

Looking down at Celluci's face, he tried to remind himself that he really didn't like the man and this was simply blind Hunger. He should, he thought, under no circumstances be finding Mike Celluci arousing. Deliberately, he tried to recall the taste of Vicki's blood in his mouth – a gift from her, that one precious time when they barely knew each other. He'd smelled her, though: her sweat, her fear, her desire. Her scent still lingered in the apartment, but it was mingled with Celluci's now, and the Hunger rose again, bringing with it both thirst and lust. His own body betrayed him, flesh grown firm and hot despite his weariness. 

Looking down at the detective again, he was caught by the glimmer of pupils through slit eyelids. At first he was uncertain if there was any real awareness behind the gaze, but as he let the Hunger bleed into his eyes, he felt the barely conscious mind behind it struggle briefly and then succumb with mute acceptance. As he watched, Celluci swallowed and let his head fall farther to the side, baring his neck in a gesture that was almost a parody of seduction. His breath came in shallow pants through slightly parted lips, eyelids falling open to stare blankly up into Henry’s face. And yet Celluci was utterly relaxed, one hand lying palm up and limp beside his head, as if he was still asleep.

Henry’s hands shook. He had his rival, his betrayer, under his hand. He could crush the life out of him, break his mind, drink his blood until he had no more left within his veins. It would be so easy, and it wouldn’t be the first time Henry had simply removed such a threat.

But what he really wanted was to posses the man on the sofa, to take the defiance out of him, make him want whatever Henry might care to do to him. He wanted Michael Celluci’s submission.

And that touched something deep inside him, something Henry didn’t like to acknowledge existed, some inherited tendency passed down from his father, who had always gotten his own way, no matter who else it affected or how. He could still recall the way the king’s eyes passed over him – over everyone – as if they weren’t real. As if other people didn’t matter, as if they only existed to service the king’s needs and desires. 

Vicki had noticed it, called it his “Prince of Man” expression, and it made her bristle every time she saw it.

When Mike Celluci saw it, it made his pupils dilate, made him smell of fear and arousal and surrender. Made him smell of prey, like the rabbit that stays still and silent even when the predator’s paw lifts from its back.

Celluci’s gaze sharpened, fixing on Henry, becoming more aware. His breath faltered, he blinked, one hand slowly curled inward until the fingernails were digging into his palm.

_He closed his eyes._

Henry reached down and carefully fixed the gauze pad back over the wound. Mike trembled slightly under him, although the vampire’s fingers never touched his skin.

“Go back to sleep,” he told the detective softly, no threat or pressure in his voice, no power to force it on the man. He stood, circled the coffee table to the comfortably upholstered chair on the other side, and sank wearily into soft leather, listening to Celluci taking deep, slow breaths that were quickly sliding back into the rhythm of slumber.

Neither of them would tell Vicki about this. Neither would speak of it to the other. An uneasy truce had been reached between the two of them without ever having to speak of it. Henry understood, instinctively, that they were doing this as much for their own sakes as for their mutual regard for Vicki. But Henry also knew that the memories of Mike Celluci’s blood on his tongue, rich and warm and salty; his head resting heavily on Henry’s lap; his silent and lovely submission here on Henry’s own couch; all would linger in Henry’s mind for a long time to come.

But he’d lived centuries already - he had all the time in the world to get to know Mike Celluci. And if they ended up running in tandem, like a pair of matched ponies, in Vicki Nelson’s wake…well, that might not be so bad.

Not now that he was close enough to see the possibilities.


	3. Mike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was nice, it was good to be held, and if it felt like giving in, like surrendering…

The third time Mike Celluci woke after having been bitten by a vampire, he found said vampire drawing his picture - at least, he thought it was the third time. The second time was kind of hazy and could have been a dream. A really _weird_ dream, but still… The first time he'd found Dr Mohadevan examining the bite mark on his neck with all the prurient fascination of a Peeping Tom. He was pretty sure that was real, since he could still feel the pinprick on his ass where she had given him some sort of vitamin shot with an almost cartoonishly large syringe.

And he could only assume that Henry Fitzroy was sketching him, since the vampire kept glancing up at Mike from the page his pencil was flying across.

For a few minutes, about the only thing Mike could manage to move was his eyelids. He closed them, testing how easy it would be to just drift back into sleep – but now his bladder was informing him that it would like to be emptied, thank you very much. He sighed.

He opened his eyes again to see Fitzroy laying down the pencil and sketch pad.

"How are you feeling?" the vampire asked quietly.

"Awful," Mike croaked, coaxing sound out a throat as dry as a drunk on a three-day bender. Groaning at the effort, each limb seeming to weigh a hundred pounds apiece, he pushed himself into a semi-upright position, shoving off the blanket someone had draped over him.

"Washroom?"

Fitzroy nodded to his left. "Down the hall, the last door."

He had to keep a hand on the wall in order to walk in a straight line. Light-headed wasn't the word for it – he felt like his head was floating a few feet above his body, and the walls of the apartment didn't seem to meet at right angles the way they should. He ignored the vertiginous sensation, just as he ignored feeling Fitzroy's eyes on him the whole way. He was _not_ going to ask for help getting to the toilet.

Although he did have to sit on it to use it.

The face that looked back at him in the mirror over the sink was like a cheap zombie movie replica of himself: all gray complexion and reddened, sunken eyes. He peeled back the bandage on his neck, flinching as the sticky part pulled at his skin.

The room swirled around him and seemed to go dark when he caught sight of the gash. Dear god, he thought dimly, it looked like Fitzroy had tried to rip his throat open…

It was happening all over again: sharp teeth piercing the thin skin of his neck, tearing at him; hot liquid trickling down his shoulder, his chest; cold hands grasping his shoulders, fingers like steel bands pressing hard enough to bruise. And then he was falling to the ground, a heavy weight bearing down on him. The initial flare of astonishment and outrage was crushed by terror as he was held down seemingly effortlessly. He could hear Vicki yelling through the roaring in his ears before she was drowned out by the pulse pounding in his throat, pumping his blood into the wet, sucking mouth that gnawed relentlessly at him.

His pulse was thumping in his groin, too, and at first it was just the usual automatic fear response he was accustomed to. Then he was thrusting his hips into the body that pressed down on him, hard and frantic and desperate, and the sensation of being unable to move, to fight back, was terrifying - and so damn good at the same time. And any moment now he was either going to come in his pants or his heart was going to burst, and he didn't even know which one he wanted more…

When he came back to himself, he was kneeling on the floor, leaning against the cool, smooth fiberglass of a ridiculously large bathtub. The shadows obscuring his vision receded back into the corners, leaving him chilled and shaking and uncomfortably close to tears. It took three tries to get back on his feet, and he still had to lean heavily on the sink while he splashed water on his face.

By the time he dragged himself back to the sofa – there was no way he could get any farther even if he tried – he was panting and covered in a light sweat despite the chill that seemed to have settled under his skin. He didn't so much sit as fall onto the black leather, and had to devote several long minutes to regaining his breath and the ability to open his eyes without the world swirling around him like a carnival ride.

When he did open his eyes, the note on the table was the first thing that grabbed his attention. Pulling the blanket around his shoulders as he reached for the paper, he was dismayed to find that his hands were shaking so much that it was hard to read the note.

"It's from Vicki," Fitzroy spoke up. "She went out to get food."

"How long – " Mike's throat was still achingly dry despite the water he'd swallowed from the washroom tap, choking off his voice.

"She had already left when I woke up, so she's been gone at least an hour." Fitzroy frowned and nudged a glass of water on the table that Mike hadn't even noticed. "Here. You've lost a lot of blood: you need to drink plenty of fluids, water or juice, over the next few days. I'm afraid I only have water."

Mike had to use both hands to hold the glass without spilling the contents all over himself, but it tasted wonderfully clean and bright and sweet, and he drained the glass in one go.

"You know a lot about treating blood loss?" he asked blandly when he'd finished.

"I've had occasion to learn. You might call it an occupational hazard." Fitzroy's tone was just as bland. There was probably a smart ass rejoinder to be found for that, but at the moment Mike couldn't think of any.

Fitzroy stood, a smooth and graceful movement, and plucked the empty glass from the detective's hands. Mike couldn't quite hold back a flinch, but Fitzroy graciously ignored it; a moment later, he was back with the refilled water glass.

"Sip it this time," the vampire advised. "I'd rather you didn't vomit on my sofa."

Mike snorted, and instantly regretted it when the ache in his head flared up. "You're worried about your sofa? I'm just happy to be alive, pal. Everything after that is gravy."

Fitzroy frowned. "Gravy," he repeated.

"Extra," Mike explained, reaching for the glass. He let it rest on his stomach to hide how weak his grasp was.

Fitzroy nodded thoughtfully. "I'd still appreciate…"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it. Sip the water." He stretched out his legs, the joints and muscles protesting, but it felt good after lying pretty much motionless for over ten hours. Staring down at his socked toes, he idly wondered what had happened to his shoes. Letting the thought drift away again, he sank further down into the cushions. What he really wanted to do right now was go home, lock the door behind him, turn on all the lights, take a really hot shower and just…fall apart a little bit.

But it didn't look like that was about to happen anytime soon, and he didn't think he could even make it as far as the door of Fitzroy's apartment without keeling over or passing out. He was tempted to close his eyes, but he still felt light-headed and a little dizzy, and at least if his eyes were open he could tell that he wasn't really about to fall off the sofa.

Fitzroy was drawing again. His brows were slightly furrowed, his lips pursed as he gazed intently at the paper before him. He'd propped the sketch pad against his knees, bare feet braced on the edge of the seat, and he looked young and ordinary in slacks and a T-shirt, charcoal smudges on his fingers.

He should, Mike thought, be terrified of the man – the _vampire_ \- sitting there. But he didn't know just what the hell he felt. Despite the shock and fear and pain he'd felt when Fitzroy had savaged him, a part of Mike had been excited. He'd been overpowered and assaulted, and it had been…

He pushed the thought, the memory, out of his mind.

"We found Delphine," Mike said quietly.

Henry's hand clenched the edge of the sketch pad, then slowly relaxed. "Yes, I know. Vicki told me."

"I'm sorry. That was…it was a terrible way to die. I had no idea – "

"I'd prefer not to speak of it, Detective."

That, Mike thought, was probably the clearest direction to change the subject of conversation that he'd ever gotten, and he wasn't in a position to push the boundaries here. They sat in silence for a few minutes, the only sound in the apartment the soft scrape of pencil on paper. Mike sipped his water, appreciating Fitzroy's instruction to drink slowly. He felt a bit sloshy from all the water he'd poured into his empty stomach.

Mike's eyes started to grow heavy, but he didn't want to go back to sleep yet.

"What are you drawing?" That seemed like a safe enough subject.

Fitzroy looked up, leveling an assessing gaze at the detective before flipping back several pages and turning the pad around so Mike could see it. There were two pictures on the first page, both of Mike himself. In one he was sleeping, his face peaceful and relaxed. In the second, he looked like he'd just woken up, bleary-eyed and confused.

They were oddly flattering pictures, and he wasn't quite sure what to make of that.

Mike reached out for the pad. For a moment, he thought Fitzroy wasn't going to let him take it, but he gave it up with a minute shrug of his shoulders. Mike turned the page over, and found Mendoza's face, thin and haughty and full of hate. The next page was Mendoza again, from a different angle. This time the man was shown in the midst of speaking, a snarl transforming his ascetic features into something almost bestial. Frowning, Mike turned to the next page, and the next, and the next, and found the same face again and again: intimated with a few brief lines, portrayed in picture perfect detail, or looming out of obsessively cross-hatched darkness.

In the last portrait, in the lower right-hand corner of the page, the one-time Inquisitor seemingly stared down at the small figure of a man who knelt with arms outstretched, wrists chained to ghostly beams behind him. His head was bowed, long hair obscuring the face. For all it was such a small sketch, the aura of pain and despair was clear in every line.

Mike sighed, staring at the picture. "Look, I just – I want to apologize. I thought I was protecting Vicki. Seems like I’m the one she needs protecting from."

He glanced up in time to see one corner of Henry's mouth curl up slightly. "I have begun to think that what Vicki most needs protection from is herself."

Mike felt himself starting to smile in response, but Fitzroy nodded at the sketchpad. "Turn the page."

And on the next page, he found Vicki staring back at him. Her hair flaring around her face like a halo, she was dressed in a suit of armor, and wielding a sword. Her face was bright with courage and determination, her chin hinting at stubborn independence, her mouth curved with humor and kindness. The parallel was clear: this was Vicki as Joan of Arc - a warrior, yet still a woman.

"I'd – I'd pay you for this," he found himself saying softly.

The sketchpad was plucked out of his hands. Before he could react, Fitzroy was back in his own chair. "I'm flattered, detective, but I won't sell it to you." The vampire glanced down at the drawing, then back up to Mike. "I will, however, make you a copy."

"Thanks." Mike lifted his glass for another sip of water to soothe the dryness of his mouth and was surprised to find it empty. He'd drunk it all without even noticing, and he was still thirsty.

Actually getting up to go get more water seemed like a ridiculous amount of effort. He still felt oddly fragile and a little detached from his body. He glanced at Fitzroy, whose attention was entirely on his sketchbook now – he wasn't about to ask the vampire to get him a refill, especially after his generous offer of a copy of that drawing of Vicki. And where the hell was Vicki, anyways? The thought of food was nauseating, but a big, sweet, ice-filled soda would be so good, and that thought made him even thirstier.

He awkwardly levered himself up off the sofa. It wasn't too hard, although it took disturbingly long to find his balance; and he knew he looked like an old man, shuffling slowly towards the kitchen.

Halfway to the doorway of the kitchen, he felt Fitzroy's attention shift from the sketchpad to himself. A vague tingling sensation crept across the back of his neck and down his spine, making his blood run faster, his heart beat harder. If there had been any blood left for it, he'd have been as hard enough to break rocks. 

As it was, the way he felt was more like the aftermath of sex: dizzy and tired and drained, close to hyperventilating. And underneath, a slight current of fear, the knowledge that he was horribly vulnerable and in the presence of something perilous. 

But every step away from Fitzroy was five times as hard as it should have been, and he felt an insistent urge to turn around, to go back, to give in.

By the time he reached the door it seemed like weights had been hung from his wrists and heels, his heart pounding so hard he thought it would burst from his chest as he gasped for air that seemed too thin to breathe. Little silver sparks kept flashing across his vision.

The glass fell from his grasp as his knees buckled, but strong arms caught him before he hit the floor. Sagging in Henry's firm but gentle grip, he couldn't even hold his head up. His face ended up tucked against the vampire's neck and the odd scent of blood and masculinity and darkness filled Mike's nostrils. He shuddered, thrust back into the memory of that strangely cool mouth closing over his pulse, the sting of sharp teeth breaking the skin, the odd drawing sensation of his life being pulled from his veins.

"I'm sorry - I didn't mean to do that to you," the light voice murmured in his ear. "You're still very weak, Michael." He was lifted, cradled in slender arms that held him seemingly without effort, held safe and secure. A vague notion that he ought to struggle, ought to stand on his own two feet, wandered idly through his mind, but he couldn't hold onto it.

But oh, it was nice, it was good to be held, or it would have been if Mike had been in any shape to appreciate it. And although Henry's regard was overwhelming, it wasn't – wasn't brainwashing, or hypnotism, or some loss of himself. It was just a sort of heightened awareness of Fitzroy, of his own body – of a potential for a type of pleasure he'd never experienced before.

And if it felt like giving in, like surrender…well, maybe that wasn't so bad or frightening, after all.

And finally, something just broke, just - _dissolved_ \- inside him, and Mike sighed and let himself relax in Henry's arms. A moment later he felt the sofa underneath him. For just a moment – one tiny, fleeting moment that he knew the vampire would notice – he tightened the arm slung around Henry's shoulders, deliberately breathed onto the cool, smooth skin, feeling strands of dark hair brush across his cheek.

Henry froze. "Michael?" the detective heard him ask softly, but Mike was swiftly sinking back into the warm blanket of sleep.

Just before the last dregs of awareness fled, he heard another voice.

"Henry? Mike! What the hell – "


	4. Vicki

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to mojavedragonfly on LJ for her excellent beta-ing assistance.

“Henry? Mike! What the hell – “

Henry lifted his head from Mike’s neck to throw Vicki a startled and guilty look, and she saw Mike’s face for the first time since she had walked in the door to find her former partner cradled in the vampire’s arms like a heroine on the cover of a romance novel.

Except, of course, for the lack of a low-cut dress, long flowing hair, and green eyeshadow.

But something went tight and hard and painful inside Vicki’s chest, and for one awful moment she thought _I’m having a heart attack_ before she recognized the feeling for what it was: a horrible mixture of dread and betrayal and loss, followed by fury.

The last time she’d seen Mike, he’d been half-asleep and grumbling dazedly about the vitamin shot Mohadevan had cheerfully given him. His face had been starting to show a little color then, the bruised look fading from his eyes.

Now his skin held an unhealthy tinge of gray, and he lay so still she couldn’t be sure he was even breathing until he sighed a little and turned his head toward Henry, and the clenched feeling in her chest eased off abruptly, although the anger remained.

“What the hell is going on?” Vicki demanded, loud enough that Mike twitched, although he didn’t wake up.

Henry settled the detective on the sofa with unexpected gentleness before turning to her. “Nothing is ‘going on’, Vicki,” he said calmly. “Mike – Detective Celluci merely overexerted himself and fainted. He’ll be fine.”

“Right,” Vicki’s tone expressed a world of doubt, but she finally moved toward them, dumping an overstuffed plastic bag full of takeout containers on the coffee table. She didn’t actually shove Henry out of the way, but if he hadn’t moved, they would have been trying to occupy the same space at the same time.

A quick check of Mike’s pulse – a little fast, but strong and steady – calmed Vicki’s own blood pressure. She peeled back the bandage on his throat, pursed her lips at the angry-looking wound that was clearly no worse than before, and finally sat on the arm of the sofa nearest his head, smoothing the tousled sandy hair. A couple of deep breaths allowed her to let go of most of the anger, and she dredged up a slight smirk for Henry, who watched her warily.

“You put the whammy on him, didn’t you?” she asked.

The vampire looked regally offended, but she stared him down. The fact that his face was slightly blurred to her in the low light of the apartment actually helped, although she could see him well enough to tell that he was not yet completely recovered from his ordeal at Mendoza’s hands. Henry usually displayed an economy of movement, an ability to sit almost unnaturally still, that Vicki envied; but now he was almost fidgety, even restless. And when she turned on a lamp in order to see better, the tight lines of strain around his eyes were obvious.

“Define ‘whammy’,” he suggested, but that guilty look was back – actually, it was more of a sheepish look, which sat oddly on him – so she just raised an eyebrow at him until he sighed and gave in.

“Yes, I put ‘the whammy’, as you so inelegantly describe it, on him. It wasn’t entirely intentional, and I’ll try not to do it again.”

“Jeez, Henry,” she said ruefully, “if you scared him so bad he fainted, he’ll never forgive you for it.”

“I didn’t frighten him,” Henry told her, a small smile tugging at his lips. He was looking at Mike as he spoke, and Vicki was close enough to see that his face lacked the cold, imperial animosity that he usually displayed whenever the cop was around.

“Oh my god,” she moaned, half appalled and half fascinated. “You used the – the sex thing? On Mike? I mean, he’s – Mike’s – he’s going to kill you when he wakes up. Shit, he’s going to kill _me_ when he wakes up.”

“Vicki,” Henry interrupted, clearly amused now, “I think the detective is perhaps not quite as…rigid…in his disposition as you seem to believe. In fact, I should tell you that Michael and I have come to a - an understanding, of sorts.”

“An ‘understanding’? What does that mean?” She could hear her voice rising again, but she couldn’t help it. The relief she’d felt at finding Mike unharmed fled in the face of Henry’s odd behavior. “What kind of understanding could you possibly have? The two of you have been at each other’s throats since you met. Oh, wait,” a nasty thought came to her, “if you’re going to have some kind of – of fight, or contest, to see which one of you gets me, you can just forget it. I’m not the kind of woman who gets off on having guys fight over her. You pull any shit like that, and you can both go to hell, because you’d better not come anywhere near me.”

Henry just stared at her, eyes wide and startled. He drew breath to speak, then let it out, looking pensive.

“Well?” she demanded, louder than she’d meant to speak.

Then a light touch on her arm distracted her, and she looked down to find Mike blinking sleepily up at her. “Jeez, Vick’,” his voice softer than she was used to hearing it outside of the bedroom, “you’re loud enough to wake the dead. Can’t you let a guy sleep after losing several quarts of blood?”

“More like a couple of pints,” Henry corrected.

To Vicki’s shock, Mike actually _grinned_ at the vampire. It wasn’t much of a grin – a little tentative and uneasy, and more than a little tired, but it wasn’t the glare Vicki would have expected yesterday.

To her further confusion, Henry almost smiled back.

“It was enough to keep you kicking, Fitzroy.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t look a gift cop in the mouth, eh, Celluci?”

They were _bantering_. In an almost friendly fashion, although caution still laced both men’s voices. Vicki looked from one to the other, feeling like her world was slipping out from under her feet. She’d wanted them to get along, or at least, not to be quite so inconveniently and irritatingly antagonistic, but this was just too much, and too sudden, for her to take in.

“Ooh, food.” Mike caught sight of the takeout bag and sat up – a little too fast, because he paled and swayed. Vicki and Henry both caught his arms to steady him, but he shook them off and reached for the bag, making a happy sound at the sight of a familiar logo on a styrofoam container, opening it to reveal something that looked more like food on the way out of someone’s mouth than food on the way in.

“Oh, Vicki, you angel,” he moaned, sticking a finger in the gloopy mess and sucking on it. “I can’t believe you brought me poutine.”

She rolled her eyes. “I guess your arteries can take it just this once. Mohadevan said you’d be very hungry and thirsty, and I should give you whatever you wanted.” As Mike found a plastic spork in the bag and dug into the combination of french fries, cheese curds, and gravy, she poked his shoulder. “She also said don’t eat too fast, and if you have trouble keeping it down, I should call her right away.”

Mike didn’t answer, but he stopped shoveling the food into his mouth and made an effort to chew it before swallowing.

Her attention was caught by Henry padding off towards the kitchen, stopping along the way to pick up the pieces of a broken glass just outside the doorway. A moment later he was back with a new glass, filled with water. He set it in front of Mike, who mumbled, “Thanks,” through a mouthful of poutine.

Vicki rubbed a tired hand over her face. She’d caught several hours of sleep curled up in the chair opposite the sofa while Mike and Henry slept away the daylight hours, but she’d been up for far too long before that – first with the business about the Wendigo, then searching for and rescuing Henry, then getting Mohadevan to come by to examine Mike. As sunset drew near, she’d roused herself to fetch food that she didn’t really feel like eating. A stop at her apartment for clean clothes and a quick shower that she hadn’t been able to resist taking had helped considerably, but the physical exertion and emotional upheavals were catching up to her again.

She slid off the arm of the sofa to sit beside Mike, resting her cheek on the warm spot left by her butt. Whatever the hell was going on between Mike and Henry, she’d figure it out later.

“Vicki?”

She opened her eyes in response to Henry’s voice, not sure when she had closed them, and turned her head to catch both the vampire and the cop looking at her with similar concerned expressions.

“I’m tired,” she growled. “Leave me alone.”

Her eyes slipped shut again, and moments later she felt a blanket being drawn over her.

“The smell of that is appalling,” she heard Henry say quietly, but without rancor.

“Don’t worry, Fitzroy,” Mike replied, “it won’t be around much longer.”

“Not at the rate you’re eating, it won’t. Please don’t get any of it on the sofa. I’d rather not smell that every time I sit there.”

“What are you, a bloodhound or a vampire? I won’t stink up your precious couch, your highness.”

Vicki groaned. “I think I liked it better when you couldn’t stand each other,” she told them without opening her eyes or lifting her head.

“You know what they say, Vicki,” Henry told her. “Be careful what you wish for – you just might get it.”


End file.
